Spring 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1994 |

Capitalism as We Know It

I say I'm ready to settle down, take root, buy a house, but no one in my rented room wants this to happen. They think as a homeowner I'll have something missing from my life, something tacky and precious to them as the motel-green shag carpet they're sprawled on where they have a good view of the alleyway that doubles as kitchen with the appliances in optimistic colors like harvest gold and avocado. Someone knows a house perfect for me, eight hundred square feet, old enough for a historical plaque, and owned by Bertrand Russell's daughter. I want to pull out my encyclopedia or History of Philosophy because it sounds too Edwardian, too much like tea with Lytton Strachey and Lady Ottoline Morrell, too many decades between me and it, but others in the room seem more bemused that Bertrand Russell's daughter is named Felicity, such a '60s name like Chastity, Flower or Liberty. By the table laden with drinks and the discordant colors of Southwest snack food--blue corn chips, green sal

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